


What Could Have Been

by Fox_Katelia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 14:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10855995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_Katelia/pseuds/Fox_Katelia
Summary: When James Potter was eleven years old, he found a red haired girl, beaten, starved and abused. What would happen if he took her in and became her friend? What would happen if Lily Evans grew up with the Potters? Why, nothing short of magical mayhem! Join Lily and James through seven years of flirting, fighting, and who knows, maybe even a little love.“Hey,” James said softly, reaching out to take her hand. She let him, simply watching, seemingly frightened.“Hey, it’s okay,” he said in his most soothing voice. “You’re safe.”She watched him hesitantly, then opened her mouth and spoke, her voice soft.“Where am I?”James smiled slightly. “You’re at my house. You’re going to be fine.”She looked at him for a long moment, then—“What’s your name?”Caught slightly off guard, he blinked, then said, “James. What’s yours?”She seemed to hesitate again, obviously mulling things over in her mind, then she seemed to reach a decision.The girl smiled at him, her eyes a little less haunted than before, and spoke.“Lily. My name’s Lily.”***ABANDONED





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello wonderful people! Welcome to What Could Have Been, an AU Lily/James story of what would have happened if she grew up with the Potter’s. As with all authors, reviews are appreciated, and I hope you like the story. Also, please note for trigger warnings: there will be some violence and mentions of abuse.  
> Enjoy the story.

James Potter was a special child. This did not only refer to the fact that he came from an old and inordinately wealthy family and was spoiled beyond the dreams of most boys his age, but that he was different.

That is to say, he was a wizard.

His family was the end of a very long line of notable and respected purebloods, descended from Godric Gryffindor himself, and as such, while he never regarded himself to be _better_ than those of non-magical birth, he had a certain smug arrogance that comes with knowing that the magical world truly exists, and that he was a part of it.

Born March 27th, 1960, James was a rather good looking boy, even at the tender age of eleven (though his devilish personality certainly left something to be desired). And while he could be serious if the occaison called for it, James believed that nothing in the world could shake his certainty that pranks and making your parents scream in frustration was the most interesting thing in the world.

But little did he know, the strange events of May 2nd, 1971, would change his life forever.

* * *

_Parents are stupid,_ eleven year old James Potter thought to himself unhappily on a brisk May morning.

He moodily kicked a sharp rock with his left foot, regreting it instantly as a blinding pain lanced its way up his ankle. He bit back a curse that he knew his mother wouldn’t approve of and hopped on one foot in pain.

He glared hard at the offending rock through wire rimmed glasses, then seemed to realize how silly he appeared and he immediately looked in the other direction, a slight red flush on his cheeks as he checked if anyone had seen him. For even at eleven years old, James Potter did not like to be made fun of. Ever.  
Upon seeing there was no one upon the extensive grounds of his family’s large manor, James continued on his path toward the old swing set, the last vestiges of pain leaving him.

The reason for his annoyance and subsequent jaunt through the rainy forest was currently residing some distance away, in the form of an exasperated Dorea Potter.

_No Quidditch for a month!_ James scowled harder and let out a small growl of frustration. While he didn’t deny that he deserved some punishment for his actions (no matter how entertaining Augusta Longbottom’s face was when her tea turned out to be spiked with a color-changing potion and turned her hair neon pink), but he considered the threat of no Quidditch to be clearly below the belt.

Besides, he knew that deep down his mother was entertain by his actions, and frankly, Augusta scared him, and he thought that she might be more approachable if she lightened up a bit. Clearly this was not the case.

James reached the swing set and sank forlornly into the rusty metal seat. It was one of the only Muggle items the Potters owned, and something about its presence, and maybe the fact that it didn’t belong in this world at all, comforted James.

He knew there would be hell to pay when he mustered up the courage to go back home. He’d walked out on his mother in the middle of an argument, and while Dorea may have carried the Potter name for well over a decade, she was still first and foremost a Black, and they were all frightening, crazy, nutters. (Not that he’d ever say that to her face. He didn’t have a death wish.)

“How am I supposed to get through the rest of the year until I go to Hogwarts with no Quidditch?” he wondered aloud, the rain lightly fogging up his glasses.  
This may have seemed like a shallow and selfish concern for him to have, especially considering that the magical community was in the middle of a terrible war with a dark wizard named Lord Voldemort (or, as most reffered to him these days: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named), but he was an adolescent boy whose world consisted of mostly pranks, toys, and interesting social events, so he could not be blamed for his naïve innocence.

James wound a hand through the creaky chain and stared at the ground. To him, there was no greater catastrophe in the world.

Wind rustled through the trees, blowing a fine mist over the landscape, and James shivered. In the midst of his outrage, he’d spared no thought about where he might be going, and as such was only wearing a thin T-shirt that did nothing to keep out the chill.

Night was falling quickly, and the grey afternoon was replaced by a velvety twilight.

A ghostly breeze danced along his spine as the moon rose.

James looked up in slight trepidation. He could feel…something. He knew that something was about to happen, something big.

His instincts were usually spot on, so he didn’t think he should start ignoring them now.

So he waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Nothing happened.

James sighed, shifting on the swing. _I’m going to be in such major trouble when I get home, staying out this late,_ he thought. _But I’ll stay a while longer._ His nerves were tingling like crazy.

A few minutes later he stood. Nothing was going to happen, and it was getting late.

James looked east, where he could almost see the lights from Potter Manor. “Well, no use prolonging the inevitable,” he said aloud. He was sure to get a sound tongue-lashing from his mother no matter what time of day or night he came in.

He’d just taken his first step when a phantom wind tore through the clearing, somehow unsettling in its suddenness.

He paused, looking around himself, then—

CRASH.

A bright light filled the clearing, and then out of nowhere, a person dropped on his head.

* * *

James dived to the side, his Quidditch instincts taking over.

He hit the ground with a groan, feeling the mysterious person draped rather heavily across his legs.

He sat up cautiously. The glow had faded. Everything looked completely normal. Except for, you know, the fact that a person had appeared out of bloody thin air when it was impossible to do so on the Potter Estate.

James wasn’t easily startled, a by product of growing up surrounded by magic, but even he couldn’t say he was entirely comfortable with the situation. It wasn’t everyday that mysterious people dropped onto you from the sky.

James carefully shifted himself from underneath the person, then leaned over to check on their apparently unconscious form.

He couldn’t see much in the half light, but he could just about make out a long mane of red hair.

With a sense of slight curiosity, James reached out and rolled the mysterious person over—

And almost instantly scrambled away with a barely repressed groan.

The mysterious person was a _girl._

It wasn’t that he didn’t like girls—he did! But at his age, he considered girls to be a separate life form. Even his parents exchanging a kiss on the cheek made him want to scream _'Yuck'_ and run away as fast as he could. Actually trying to approach a girl—that was pure torture. His father assured him he’d get over his fear of girls soon enough. James wasn’t quite sure he believed him.

Swallowing slightly with repressed nausea, James looked over the girl again.

If he’d been a few years older, he would’ve noticed just how pretty she was, about his age, with delicate porcelain features and long auburn hair, but as it was, all he could think about was that she probably didn’t play Quidditch.

Oh, the life of an eleven year old boy.

Gathering what remained of his courage ( _You want to be a Gryffindor, don’t you,_ he reminded himself), James leaned forward and tentatively shook the girl’s shoulder.

“Hey, get up,” he said. The girl didn’t respond.

He shook her harder, slightly annoyed now.

She let out a light groan and her eyelashes flickered.

James huffed and put his arm behind her back to try to push her up.

It didn’t work.

James sat back and stared at her nettled. And it may have been his imagination, but it looked like the girl’s face was even paler than before.

“Honestly,” James said. “What is wrong with you?”

He looked at her for a moment, then felt something slightly sticky on the hand supporting the girl’s back.

He pulled it out, examining it absently, only to pull back and stare in shock at the substance coating it, which was quite obviously blood.

He twisted and looked at the girl, whose face seemed go be getting paler with each passing moment.

Hands shaking slightly, James reached over and gently turned her onto her stomach.

He swallowed down bile as he stared at the the ruined, bloody mess that was this girl’s back.

He breathed in deeply, trying not to be sick at the coppery scent of blood.

Once he had his nausea under control he regarded her as calmly as he could (which wasn’t very calm).

“I have to get you to the house,” he said aloud. The girl didn’t answer (not that he expected her to).

James clenched his jaw, then, careful to avoid her back, leaned over and picked the girl up off the ground.

He grunted slightly at her weight, even though she wasn’t very heavy, and he could clearly feel her ribs through the thin pajama’s she was wearing.

This frightened him slightly.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said aloud, not quite sure who he was talking to. “You’re going to be fine,” he repeated. “Just hold on.”

And as he set off toward the house, whether he realized it or not, his life had just changed irrevocably.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: some mentions of abuse and violence.

Dorea Potter was not one to lose patience easily. She’d born and raised James Potter after all, and with that experience comes a certain level of resilience.  
But even she had her limits.

Dorea paced the drawing room, feeling a mixture of anger and worry directed toward her son.

“It’s getting late,” she said, turning to look at her husband, Charlus Potter, who was watching her from the couch. When he didn’t answer she continued, “He should be back by now.”

“Calm down, Dorea,” Charlus said, reaching out and touching her hand lightly. “Our boy has a good head on his shoulders, and he knows the grounds like no other. He’ll be fine.”

Dorea bit her lip, but didn’t say anything.

“Come sit down,” Charlus said with a sigh, patting the couch next to him.

Dorea made a face but sat.

There was a moment of silence, then—

“Oh, I can’t stand it.” Dorea stood again, her face upset, and resumed pacing.

Charlus sighed again and raised his eyes to the heavens as though asking for patience. But secretly, he was just as worried. He just had a different way of showing it.

Dorea continued wearing a hole in the carpet, now muttering intelligible things under her breath.

Charlus almost groaned and was about to suggest a nice cup of tea (perhaps with some Odgen’s mixed in), when there was the identifiable _crack_ of apparation. They both turned immediately, seeing their old house elf, Mispy, standing before them in a worn tea towel, draped across her small form like a toga.

She was wringing her hands and looked almost distraught.

“What is it Mipsy?” Charlus asked her, since his wife seemed to be in no fit state to be making inquiries.

“Master, there is a person at the front door,” Mipsy said, her bulbous eyes wide. “Little Master is with them.”

Dorea stopped pacing and turned to face them.

Charlus paused. “Are you sure?” he asked her.

Mispy nodded fervently, her batlike ears flapping with the movement.

“Mipsy has seen it with her own eyes,” she said. “They is there, and—and one of them appears to be injured.”

Dorea and Charlus locked eyes, then, almost as one, turned and ran towards the foyer.

Dorea slipped on the marble tiles, but reached out and grabbed a hand to steady herself on the nearest sturdy surface (unfortunately for him, this turned out to be Charlus).

She exchanged a last worry filled look with her husband (mixed with a bit of an apology for his bruised throat), then grabbed the door handle and jerked it open.  
And there, standing on the front step, looking exhausted and slightly dazed, was James Potter.

His parents took him in for a moment, then as Dorea opened her mouth to yell, she noticed the girl he was supporting. Her anger disapated into confusion.  
She furrowed her brow. “James, who is this?”

James seemed to come out of his daze.

“I dunno,” he said. “She just appeared out of nowhere.”

Charlus raised his eyebrows and exchanged a look with his wife.

They appeared hesitant to let her in the house, but then James, slightly lopsided from the girl’s weight, added, “She’s wounded, Dad.”

The girl chose that exact moment to groan slightly. She shifted her head, her eyelashes fluttering, and now the elder Potter’s could clearly see the blood soaking through her cotton pajamas.

Dorea looked at Charlus, the professional healer in her wanting to examine the girl. He hesitated, then nodded slightly.

Dorea wasted no more time.

She held open the door, and said to James, “Bring her to the study.”

* * *

 

James wasn’t quite sure what to do.

After taking the girl to the first floor study, his mother had taken one look at him and told him to bring her fresh water and bandages. Once he’d done that, she promptly shooed him from the room and locked the door.

James paced in the hallway, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.

He supposed he’d only just met the girl, but maybe something about seeing her so close to death… it made him feel strangely protective of her. Or at the very least, concerned about if she’d live.

James stopped pacing for a moment and stood there, straining to see if he could hear anything from the study.

Nothing.

And the wounds on the girl’s back…

He may not have been a healer like his mother, but he knew a life threatening wound when he saw one. And those slashes had looked an awful lot like whip marks…

James started pacing again, a frown marring his features.

This was probably the longest he’d ever been serious (with the possible exception of the time he’d had to stay the night at Walburga Black’s house. Merlin, that woman was creepy.)

James, seeing nothing was going to happen anytime soon, left to go to the bathroom.

He was on his way to the kitchens to grab a bite to eat before resuming his watchful silence, when he heard the sound of low voices talking in the study.

He crept closer to listen in, noticing his parents had left the door cracked, probably by accident.

He carefully peered around the edge of the door, spotting the girl lying on a cot in the corner. He couldn’t see much more than her fiery red hair, but even that was almost enough to make his heart jump slightly. He ignored the feeling, instead focusing on his parents, who were standing close together by the oak desk, talking quietly.

He leaned forward slightly, straining his hearing, then he could dimly hear what they were talking about.

“—severe damage to the muscles and tissues in her back, Charlus. It will take time to heal.” This was his mother.

“But she will heal?” His father.

A quiet sigh. “Yes. With the proper care and treatment, she should make a full recovery.”

James felt relief sweep through him, but he concentrated on his parents once more when his father responded.

“That’s good. However, I’m more concerned about how a girl her age suffered such abuse.”

“As am I,” Dorea said. “From what I can see, the damage appears to have been done by a whi-i-i—a whip.” Her voice caught slightly on the last word.

James felt a shiver run through him.

“But why?” Charlus appeared just as disturbed as his wife. “Who would do such a thing to a child?”

Another sigh. “There are several possibilities. She could be a runaway, or an orphan, who ran into some trouble. Or—or it could be an issue of domestic violence.”  
James wasn’t sure what domestic violence was, but judging by his father’s intake of breath, it wasn’t good.

“Do you really think…?”

Dorea seemed to shrug. “Anything’s possible.”

There was silence for a moment, during which James stayed as still as possible, barely daring to breathe. He would be in trouble, he knew, if he was caught.

“How do you think she got here?” Charlus asked abruptly. James almost grinned. He knew a change of subject when he saw one, and unfortunately, he’d inherited his father’s lack of subtlety on the subject.

His mother recognized it too and didn’t press the subject of the girl’s wounds. She was clearly just as disturbed by them.

“I think it may have been accidental magic,” she said hesitantly.

Charlus turned quickly to face her.

“You think she’s a witch?” The surprise was evident in his voice.

“Like I said before: anything’s possible. If she was, she’d be a Muggleborn, but I think it’s likely. It’s almost impossible go get through the wards in purpose, and only a very powerful wizard could breach them. And accidental magic is hard to control, she could have easily gone through the wards if she didn’t know what she was doing. Anyone could.”

“That’s comforting,” his father said under his breath.

Dorea continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Besides, how else would you explain her appearance on the grounds? Muggles can’t do magic, and I’m almost certain no one sent her here on purpose.”

James didn’t hear his father’s reply.

He slipped away from the door, his heart pounding, and silently walked to his room. He’d heard enough.

Once in his room he sat down on his bed and stared at the wall. When _that_ got boring, he lay back and stared at the ceiling. When that got boring he started playing with his mini model of the Quidditch Pitch.

He was just working out how the Seeker could use a Wronski Feint to evade the bludgers when his door opened.

James looked up, seeing his mother enter.

Dorea left the door open and came to sit down on her son’s bed.

They were silent for a moment, then James spoke.

“Is she going to live?”

The question seemed to startle his mother, but after a second she sighed and said simply, “Yes.”

James had already known this, but something about hearing it stated so matter-of-factly made it a little easier.

“What are we going to do with her when she wakes up?” he asked.

“I’m not quite sure,” Dorea confessed. “I think she’s a witch—after all, how else could she have appeared on the grounds?—and it’s obvious she’s in some sort of trouble back home. No stable lifestyle includes whipping.”

Dorea didn’t feel the need to sugarcoat the truth; despite his somewhat frivolous attitude, James was smart. He’d most likely worked out what was wrong with the girl himself by now, and she knew he could handle the truth, however gruesome it may be.

“If—if she did get those injuries at home,” James said, trying word his request carefully. “Do you think she could stay here with us?” He looked up at his mother hopefully.

“James, we don’t even know the girl!” Dorea said admonishingly, surprised. “And I’m sure she has some family back home who are worried about her.”  
James could hear the doubt in her voice, but didn’t call her out on it.

“I know that,” he said. “But there’s something about her…it’s like…” he searched for the right words, aware of his mother watching him bemusedly. “It’s like something’s…pulling me toward her,” he said finally. “Some sort of magnetic force.” He looked up. “Does that make sense?”

Dorea, for her part, looked entirely confused, but said cautiously, “In a way, I’m sure. I know I felt something similar when I first met your father.”

James, looking pleased that she was agreeing with him, began nodding his head—then he seemed to realize just what his mother was insinuating and looked at her in horror and disgust.

 _“Mum!”_ he cried. “She’s a—she’s a _girl."_

 _And I’m only eleven,_ the mature side of him added silently.

Dorea had a hint of a smile on her face, but she just shook her head and raised her hands in surrender.

“Fine, fine,” she sighed. “I won’t start matchmaking yet. You are a bit young for that, I suppose.”

James nodded in fervent agreement, his features still twisted in disgust.

After a moment, Dorea spoke, sighing. “I’m not sure what we’ll do about the girl. We’ll have to talk to her when she wakes up.”

James looked at his mother and nodded, then turned back to staring at his model Quidditch pitch.

Dorea stood, and turned to leave with a sigh.

At the doorway she hesitated, looking back at her son, then she shook her head and turned and left.

* * *

James had figured that watching the girl would be a bit more interesting. But really all she did was sleep.

Once the Potter’s had eaten dinner, James had begged his mother to let him watch the girl.

Since Dorea was exhausted and wanted to take a nap, she had allowed him, with the condition that he would get her the moment she awakened.

Now James was beginning to regret his decision. The girl really wasn’t all that interesting, since she was still unconscious. Pretty to look at, he supposed, but not much else.

James shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Dorea had changed the girl out of her blood soaked pajamas, into some clean ones (some of his, he noticed, with a mental scowl at his mother), and cleared her face and hair of any blood with a simple charm.

He’d overheard his parents discussing whether or not to transfer her to St. Mungo’s, but they’d decided against it in the end. Dorea was a professionally trained healer, and the girl was no longer in any danger of dying. It was easier to just let her stay here.

James stared at the girl’s face again, silently willing her to wake up.

There was still no movement.

James sighed and leaned closer, peering carefully at her face.

Her skin was still pale, both from blood loss and lack of sunlight. Her thick hair, red and wavy, almost reached her waist. He couldn’t see what color her eyes were, but something told him they would be just as beautiful as the face they belonged to.

James leaned back into his chair, bored of watching her, and took off his wire rimmed glasses, allowing his head to loll back…

A moment later he was asleep.

* * *

Some time later, James was awoken from his doze by the sound of gentle gasping.

His eyes opened blearily, and he saw a vague red blur distantly stirring next to him.

Confused and almost completely blind, he reached blindly for his glasses, and, fumbling slightly, perched them on the end of his nose.

He looked around himself and saw nothing different.

Just as he was satisfied that he had dreamed about the sound, he heard another gasp.

His eyes flew to the culprit.

The girl.

She was awake.

She was stirring lightly, her eyes fluttering open.

James was almost paralyzed as her gaze moved slowly around the room, finally coming to rest on him.

Emerald green met hazel, and James’ breath caught. Her sparkling eyes were quite possibly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen

The girl blinked once. Twice.

“Hey,” James said softly, reaching out to take her hand. She let him, simply watching, seemingly frightened.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said in his most soothing voice. “You’re safe.”

She watched him hesitantly, then opened her mouth and spoke, her voice soft.

“Where am I?”

James smiled slightly. “You’re at my house. You’re going to be fine.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then—

“What’s your name?”

Caught slightly off guard, he blinked, then said, “James. What’s yours?”

She seemed to hesitate again, obviously mulling things over in her mind, then she seemed to reach a decision.

The girl smiled at him, her eyes a little less haunted than before, and spoke.

“Lily. My name’s Lily.”


End file.
